


Being Or Nothingness

by jambal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Declarations Of Love, Falling In Love, Finding their feet, Frustrating Sherlock, M/M, give them their happiness, please, up to the reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 05:54:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jambal/pseuds/jambal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have a heated discussion regarding their new relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Being Or Nothingness

**Author's Note:**

> Some angst (but not really); and a lot of waffling (yes really).
> 
> Wherein Jen attempted to write angst and failed, so continued to write and ended up with this sporadic and annoying stream of consciousness.

 

  
 _The woods decay, the woods decay and fall,_  
 _The vapours weep their burthen to the ground,_  
 _Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath,_  
 _After many a summer dies the swan._  
\- Alfred Tennyson

 

 

 

Sherlock’s stare is blazing over John, his eyes are dark, almost black and his brow is furrowed in frustration, also a hint of exasperation and a resignation, the only expression that John can craft. Sherlock has resigned to John and his own instinct, that cold and unashamed film of indifference to the world is obliterated when John stands before him like he stands now, open, vulnerable and angry.  
John doesn’t remember when exactly he fell in love with Sherlock. Disregard that it isn’t important; it’s actually the most important aspect of the entire goddamn situation. He remembers silly things, frustratingly intimate things, like what they wore, what Sherlock smelled like and the way in which his gaze would pour over him, like ice-cold water, just when he needed it. Sherlock smelled like oranges; hibiscus and heady. There was also a coppery smell, too, but John is never sure whether that was the residual smell of blood off damp skin and writhing bodies, maybe something different, something dangerous.

 

Which leads back to this conversation, this searing heat of words and expressions that could hurt, and do hurt and do burn and do steal. Recalling past conversations; they come without warning and are administered like a shotgun and the recipient yields for a moment, only to fire back with something akin to a battlefield. It’s unadulterated and it’s addictive and they have unspoken apologies, testimonials and vulgarities on their lips and they throw these word grenades like there is nothing better to do. The initial blow is devastating. Remnants of their battle, settling around them and consuming them; they stutter and remember to breathe. They remember to love and touch and teeth scraping over flesh and that coppery smell, but this time mixed with tears and sweat and semen. But not this conversation, there’s a change in the air and feels like wildflowers hidden in the grass, the anger boils and neither will break because they’re so damn stubborn and addicted.

 

That’s when the world snaps, their gaze snaps and their commitment snaps. John is standing before Sherlock and he’s vibrating with anger and frustration and need and adoration. Sherlock mirrors him, standing with his hands on his hips, his face stony with aggravation, but there’s softness in his gaze, but it’s not enough. It’s not enough to penetrate through their anger so they don’t talk about the softness in John’s eyes either or the fact that his face has gone slack in exasperation. They, for a moment, don’t think that they will say anything. The silence stretches on and on and there’s another shift, another tilt in their world, that small and significant bubble where they _can_ touch and _can_ hurt because they’re captivated, then John inhales and releases it. He releases the fixation that hasn’t been uttered and perhaps he releases it because right now anything is better than this assault. Those words which are scalding, they sear skin and leave a path of devastation.

 

“You’re the one that I wanted to find.” John says simply, as if it were the easiest of utterances. As if they had not engaged in an emotional war.

 

He says the words and dares Sherlock to retort. He goads him with his eyes, adding to the fire, he pours the petrol around them and smiles, inhaling the fumes and just _daring_ him. Sherlock is still staring, there’s no more resignation in his eyes. There’s anger and it’s an expression matched by John. Staring and staring and the room spins like their lives are the entertainment and John thinks that Sherlock’s ego alone could fill an entire coliseum.

Sherlock, as if reading John’s mind steps closer to him. His eyes are wild and his nostrils are flared and his words are spat out like a fire’s embers interrupting domestic bliss.

 

“Words can be like X-rays if you use them properly, they’ll go through anything.” Sherlock spoke so suddenly that John jumped; his face was contorting in confusion and frustration. Sherlock saw it all and he smirked just before John could answer him.

 

“You’re a fucking tosser. Do not speak in riddles to me. Do not treat me like an incompetent. Do you have no consideration at all for me? You know how much I need you and you never even see me, do you? You take and you take and I – I’m exhausted.” The words spilled from John’s mouth like a dam bursting and he saw no turning back. He, for the first time, only saw the fall out. He could not see the hours in the future where they should lay together, limbs entwined, skin still damp with perspiration and the faint taste of Sherlock on his tongue. He thought about closing his eyes and imagining it, pressing his fingers to his lips just to remember how it felt to be kissed by Sherlock, but he couldn’t. Sherlock was still staring at him, wide eyed and he seemed to be vibrating with anger and it spun a web around the room and each word, each unabashed utterance stuck to it and it was there, that was it. They were catalogued, for eternity.

 

“Is that what you think?” Sherlock finally said.

 

John nodded abruptly, never breaking the gaze which began, what felt like, many life-times ago.

 

“Aldous Huxley.” Sherlock breathed.

 

“What the hell are you-“ John could barely think of the end of that sentence before Sherlock interrupted him.

 

“He’s a writer.”

 

“I know who he is.” John answered; his frustration ripe and ready.

 

“He understands. He comprehends what it is to be in this hell, this never-ending and spiralling existence. I tire of fiction, yet I always return to Huxley. He knows what it is to be desired and to desire. He knows how destructive it can be, how destructive it is! Look at us. ‘Maybe this world is another planet’s hell.’  This world, this existence, it’s tiring and you, you and your existence and my existence it’s not important. None of it is important; it ends. We will end and I cannot lose – I cannot be without – It’s not important.” Sherlock doesn’t waver, if anything he looks stronger, like he’s won and that’s that. He challenges John with his hands on his hips, swaying slightly with annoyance.

  
It’s a funny thing, forever; a very long time; for all future time; for always; eternally everlasting; for-ever. When John fell in love with Sherlock he would never have bet on forever. He would never have bet on having many of these conversations, these long-winded and horribly real, conversations. He would have bet on remembering, remembering the first time they kissed. John lay down and pressed his fingers to his lips, even long after the kiss happened he could still feel Sherlock, he could almost taste him. When Sherlock fell in love with John it was not as easy, it was not as accepted. When they first slept together, Sherlock wrapped his body around John and said, “You make me feel like liquid”, John didn’t laugh, he didn’t even smile, he burrowed deeper into Sherlock’s embrace and licked and kissed his sweat coated skin, around his neck.

 

“John, believe me to be very sincerely yours. Life is fleeting and although we will end, if you were to leave me or if one of us were to die or – believe me when I say that your presence is what makes the world a sweeter place.” Sherlock didn’t break their gaze but he smiled, not one that transported to his lips but one that lit a fire behind his eyes.

 

“Sherlock” John’s voice was controlled and Sherlock screwed his face, shaken by the sudden change in tone. “I’ll be here. I’ll be by your side; just you try and stop me.”

 

A shift in tone; It can cure a heart, it can patch up struggles, one shift of pitch and an utterance becomes so much more. There was still plenty in the air, there were recriminations echoing in their minds and words that were only uttered on the brink of ecstasy were floating in a haze around the living room. Echoes and echoes; softening gazes and withering apologies; with eyes that could smoulder and hollow the most vivid of notions. They all seemed to culminate in one moment, in one instance of absolute clarity. The silence stretched on and the two men sought solace in their respective arm-chairs. Sighing as they sat and still staring, challenging the other because so help them God, if one were to speak first, or break this challenge or screw this moment up, because for the first time they’re right there, they’re living and fighting for the one thing in their world that matters; each other.

 

“I love you, Sherlock.” John said, finally breaking the chain.

Sherlock was still staring at John. The recriminations dissipated, the web was blown through the window and the wind caught the wild-flowers and the moment itself was heady and weighted, but the freeing sense of obligation and utter relief was addictive. Sherlock went on looking at him in silence, then, as if under a spell, threw back his head and started to laugh, John did, too. They laughed and everything at that moment was tolerable. Their laughter seemed to retreat further into the shadows, and in the growling dark their soft hiccoughs fluttered away like the stuttering beat of a heart succumbing to death.

 

 


End file.
